I had a coffee-and-pastry breakfast and made my way out into the street, through the security gauntlet and through the subsequent gauntlet of vendors. Though it was punishingly hot, I walked all the way to 37 Talaat Harb. I didn’t know how I’d handle the lie, but I knew that I’d be faithful to my own interests. A few minutes from the address, I stopped to buy a bottle of mineral water from a street vendor. The vendor opened the ice-cold bottle for me, and when I turned back toward the street, I saw a familiar sight: cowboy boots and the cuffs of a charcoal, pin-striped business suit. “Howdy, Junior,” said the Ghost of William Andrews Clark. “I thought you’d never summon me again.” “I didn’t,” I said. I was whispering. I looked back at the vendor. “Shouldn’t you be more discreet?” “Don’t worry,” he said. “Only the dogs can see me. Well, technically, almost any animal. And the pathologically insane.” “That’s comforting,” I said. “It’s been a while, Khosi,”
